Gemotions

The phone slipped from Elias's trembling fingers, landing with a soft thud on the worn wooden floorboards. He hadn't meant to text anyone. His thumbs, usually deft at navigating the screen, felt clumsy, heavy. The message, meant for his deceased wife, was simple: "I miss your laugh." Now, it sat in the inbox of his boss, Mr. Henderson, a man whose voice always boomed with forced joviality. Elias closed his eyes, a wave of nausea washing over him.

He pictured Henderson's reaction: the raised eyebrow, the pursed lips, the inevitable awkward phone call. He should have been more careful. Now, he'd opened a wound, a private hurt that was meant to be untouched. He scrubbed at his face with both hands, the rough stubble scratching his skin. The emptiness in the house echoed his own hollowness.